Fuck You, Bitches At The Butcher’s Block.

This week I travelled up to Sydney from my arctic Melbourne home to visit the fam. It was tops! My kids were putting on a show during the entire trip, pretending to be sweet little angels. So I was in heaven parading them around as the human produce of my loins. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Until the day we left.

I made a little gathering of mates in a local cafe in Wahroonga called The Butcher’s Block on Sydney’s North Shore for a bit of a nosh. This cafe is a teeny bit famous for having great food and hot waiters, so all the North Shore Mums like to congregate there to have a bit of a perv on the too-young-sexy-things serving them lattes. Many a bitch fight has happened here about who got the hottest waiter and who got stuck with a chick instead. But the food is great even though they charge $8 for raisin toast.

Now, Wahroonga is the bit after Hornsby where things start to turn a bit posh. The clientele get a bit more up their own fan-wah’s and there are a lot of silver sneakers from Seed, puffer vests and Country Road ensembles going on. It’s about 50/50 old people vs young families and BOY were they putting on a show for us. It was like a fucking peacock parade with muted tones and too much cashmere.

I was at the end of my 5 day trip feeling a little bit frazzled from all the running around and juggling of kiddies. And as much as I enjoyed the visits to friends and family, I was fucking stuffed by the time the cafe date came around. Anyway, I turned up and shit got real. The dulcet tones of the North Shore convo were drowned out by the arrival of Far Kew and her hyper tribe of kids.

The wanky industrial metal seats that every cafe seems to have these days were making a really loud sound on the tiled floor, my kids were screeching “hello” and I was struggling with an armful of one 15 kilo womb raider and all the bags of toys and shit for the other one. I ordered a coffee and a babycino and the little bags of popcorn I brought with me as back-up (for if they turned into turds) were opened within seconds. Whilst that got flung all over the table and into the air, I noticed a North Shore Mum to my right giving me the evil death stare. She kept looking between my chaotic little scene and her elderly companions and there was much head shaking and disapproving looks. My Far Kew sense started tingling and I was ready to kick some fucking arse. I was in no mood for a steamed vagina bitch fight this morning, so I offered her my counter-stare. Bitch backed down.

My kids stuffed around with some very fucking expensive scrambled eggs, yelled at the waiter because there were no marshmallows on the babycino (they were hidden in the drink) and just start making a LOT of noise. Fancy glazed pottery plates were clanked together, tiny metal containers of chutney got smeared everywhere and the Duplo and pencils I’d whipped out in sheer desperation were now in all corners of the cafe. My son was chewing on one of my friends babies shoes and tossed it behind him. It looked expensive. SHIT. It was then that I noticed another steamed vagina to my left shaking her head and doing the old ‘tut-tut’ routine. Things on my end were not improving. The kids got louder and more obnoxious, tired screams turned into desperate wails and I was forced to choke down my truffle infused eggs (the exact same scrambled eggs that cost $12 for my kids were drizzled with truffle oil and a few slices of salmon and fennel and represented for $23) and make a hasty exit.

Well, here are a few choice words for the dried up snatches that were giving me the evil eye. FUCK YOU. You were also spat out of a meat wallet once and probably yelled like that too. But your mum’s eggs would have cost about $1 instead of $23, so back the fuck off and let me finish my breakfast in peace without judgement. Just because I was wearing my last clean clothes and didn’t have the whole North Shore Mum outfit thing going on, you don’t have to look at me like I got off a train from Rooty Hill at 5am after having five shags with no shower. I’m still human.

The next time I am there and you pull this sort of shit, you will not be so lucky. I will call you out on your tragic peacock parade and remind you that it is Far Kew who rules the North Shore now. And I don’t even live there anymore. I’ll take you the fuck down and you won’t even see it coming.

So stick your cobweb infested organic vagina in the steamer again and get the fuck over yourself, or I’ll ask you to babysit.

THE END

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My wife’s family live in Mosman and unfortunately we’ve experienced the death stares of the Mosman trophy wives whilst our son wrecks havoc with his $10 raisin toast. Depending on whether we want to revisit the cafe depends on how much I egg him on 😉

Oddly, when the 6’4″ muscular father of my kids takes them out to nice cafes they could destroy the place and he gets not so much as a glance from other patrons or staff. If, on the other hand, they do something as outrageous as sing a little song when I am in the same cafe, I get someone asking that I “Please keep that child QUIET”. So…when I am annoyed at a cafe for being snooty one week, I send my children back the next week with their father, so the cafe can appreciate what small children can REALLY be like. Suck it, bitches.

My girlfriend and I argue about how to spell fan-wah! She’s from the north shore and spells it fanois however me, the country girl, spells it the same way as you! Such a funny read, love it. Thank you!

You are not paying for peace and quiet in a public establishment that serves food to people, you are paying for food and service. If you want peace and quiet go to a library. You are sharing the space with other people who are also paying for that food and service and sometimes those people have children who they are having trouble controlling – perhaps you remember that if you also trod the boards at 3am? Or were your little kiddies always perfect? What those mums need is for you to look at them sympathetically and maybe think of a way you can help, or at least remember that children are independent humans who will chose for themselves if they are going to behave or be dickheads.Mums shouldn’t be forced to always eat McDonalds any more than you should, nor should children for that matter!

You honestly sound like the customer from hell.
If you approach a cafe, read their menu and decide that the food is overpriced, you can decide to not enter the establishment.
No one is forcing you to be a customer.

You are deluded and well…let’s face it, a bit of a dick, if you willingly enter a cafe and then be a wanker about the prices.

If your out of control children smear or fling their fucking food over the table, floor or staff, may I just remind you politely that this makes you a dickhead.

Take some responsibility for yourself and your children.

I intended to click on this article, empathise with you about north shore mums, have a chuckle and move on but all I have gathered is that you are the problem here.
Gross.

Or, she could enter the establishment, pay the price on the menu and expect a quality of food and higher level of service commensurate with those prices…like a normal person who arranged to meet up with her friends somewhere and had expected her children to behave, but had to deal with them deciding to instead be jerks. But here is the thing about mums who dare to go out in public with their children not knowing how they may ultimately behave but hoping for the best – if your children are losing it and you are tired, what you need is sympathy and support from the people around you, not filthy looks. I note that she also left with her children when they became too unbearable. Don’t mistake making light of a fraught situation for comedic effect for not really caring about her children’s behaviour in public – most mums are trying their best and judgemental fan-wahs are not helping.

Well said 🙂 And believe me I was armed with pencils, paper, stickers, treats and toys. Sometimes they just don’t want to play nice. We had skipped a nap to see friends and that’s always playing with fire. The thing the cobweb brigade are unaware of is we regularly dine at cafes and are complimented on our children’s behaviour. They are 3 and 1. Give me a fucking break beeeeutches. I wasn’t just sitting there letting them be feral. It wouldn’t be very bloody interesting to write about my kids behaving in a cafe would it? Or maybe I could try and make that funny…..nup. Never going to happen.

Go get some doodle Viola, unless it’s too dry to get it in there. In which case you’ll need some lube. But don’t use KY, that’s full of endocrine disruptors. Refer to my latest post on Gwyneth and her suggestions for natural lubricants.
Just because you are old does not give you free reign to “have a go”. If you do not like the blog then go read Take 5 magazine.